Bellarke Moments
by AnEloquentFacade
Summary: This will be home to any Bellarke drabbles that come across my mind. New Segment: "Grieving Alone, Together" AU: For the past five years Clarke Griffin has visited the cemetery at the same time and same day to pay respect to her deceased father, but she is never there alone. This year, however, things are happening a little differently than usual.
1. The Couch

**THE COUCH**

Clarke had woken up on the Blakes' couch more times than she could ever count. Pre-teen slumber parties, late-night high school study groups, slightly delinquent birthday festivities, and (most recently) drunken college kickbacks, the couch had survived it all. The only difference was that it currently resided in Bellamy's apartment instead of the small house the Blakes grew up in.

Running her fingers over the well-worn fabric was something akin to hugging an old friend; it was comforting, safe; it felt like home. On the edge of consciousness, her fingers swirled intricate patterns over the fabric. But even in her disorientated state she knew that something was different; the fabric was too textured, too rough.

Her hand continued tracing patterns on the perplexing material until she heard a soft groan from above her. It was suddenly obvious: jeans. Under the throw pillow that supported her head, her hand was resting on a very firm, jean-clad thigh. She'd had a bit too much to drink the night before but she had no doubt as to who she was pressed against: the strong limbs, the earthy smell mixed with the smallest hint of cologne, the long fingers splayed across her back and in her hair—Bellamy surrounded her. She resisted the urge to open her eyes and steal a look up at his face. Based on what she could feel, Bellamy had fallen asleep sitting up and she was stretched across the couch with her head on the pillow in his lap.

He was still asleep, she was fairly certain, but she didn't want to chance ending their unconventional embrace too soon. In this quiet moment she could let her mind believe the fantasies she normally tried to push out of her head. She could let herself believe that she and Bellamy often woke up like this, inextricably connected in a jumble of tangled limbs; and that she meant more to Bellamy than merely being his baby sister's best friend. She wanted to let the fantasy run rampant in her mind, comforting her like the warmth that was radiating from every place where Bellamy was touching her, but memories of the night before kept intruding on her semi-conscious daydream. She had too many thoughts to fully focus on one.

Octavia insisted she come over to celebrate the fact that Bellamy had finally finished his Master's thesis. It was on its way to be published, bound, and set on a shelf in the university's library where, Octavia joked, nobody would read it—except maybe Clarke. Clarke, who felt like she had experienced much of Bellamy's progress through his master's program, was more than happy to celebrate and congratulate him on his achievement. She, like Octavia, was extremely proud of Bellamy and his accomplishments. A few other people showed up including Bellamy's fairly recent ex, Roma. Roma was a rather unpredictable person and frequently popped off with passive-aggressive remarks (which Clarke could easily combat, having grown up with the Blakes), but since she had spent seven months watching the leggy brunette be with Bellamy in ways that Clarke could only daydream about, she was automatically inclined to dislike the woman. This dislike was only increased by the fact that Roma dumped Bellamy so that she could date his childhood friend, Murphy—a surly and generally unlikeable asshole, who the Blakes grew up with; they showed up together and made an attempt to not flaunt their relationship in Bellamy's face. For all of the things that Murphy was, he was at least loyal to Bellamy and showed him respect, even if he refused to show respect to anyone else. That aspect of humanity and connection to Bellamy was the only real reason that Clarke was able to tolerate Murphy at all.

What was most troubling about the couple's appearance at the party was that Clarke couldn't tell if Bellamy's nonchalance toward Roma and Murphy was because he was genuinely over Roma or because he was trying to make it look like he was genuinely over her. Their relationship had only ended three weeks ago and although Clarke was happy to see Roma go, she knew that Bellamy was starting to open up to the girl and that meant that he cared for her. He told Clarke that he was fine, but he kept his true emotions so carefully hidden away that she wasn't entirely sure that he wasn't heartbroken. He never talked much with her about his relationships, and always seemed to skirt around the issue when she brought it up. She tried not to think about that too much, and really couldn't be bothered to think much at all about anyone beyond Bellamy because he spent a good part of the night topping off Clarke's red Solo cup, and talking about obscure pieces of artwork and their historical significance. This was a conversation Clarke was used to; they often tried to best each other in the area of their respective expertise—Bellamy began researching art and Clarke paid attention more than ever in her history lectures. These were Clarke's favorite conversations because not only did they involve two of her favorite topics—art and history—but she also found listening to Bellamy discuss them to be the most captivating thing she had ever experienced. His intelligence and passion were painfully alluring, but she willingly let herself fall further down that unrequited path.

Occasionally Bellamy would disappear from her side to converse with others at the party, but as the night slipped into the early hours of morning, people headed home and even Octavia disappeared into the guest room to sleep, but not before giving Clarke a discrete but meaningful wink. Bellamy and Clarke were alone, chatting on the couch where they had had many similar nights over the years. After the catastrophe of her relationship with Finn, Clarke was guarded and didn't open up to people easily, but she couldn't suppress her smile as she thought about how comfortable and natural it felt to be sitting up late with Bellamy; even though they were simply talking, it felt intimate.

She felt him stir lightly, and as his fingers brushed along the base of her neck and the sensitive skin there, she involuntarily curled into him further—a sigh slipping through her lips before she could stop it. She quickly pressed her lips together and hoped that Bellamy was still sleeping. Nothing had ever been overtly sexual between them and she was a little embarrassed to have let her fantasies lower her carefully constructed façade of platonic friendship. It would definitely be an awkward and embarrassing morning if he woke up to her moaning from his lap. Bellamy was a constant in Clarke's life while other male figures seemed to be fleeting for one reason or another, but not him. He was there for all of the major moments in her life: graduation from high school, her father's death, her first boyfriend, her first big fight with her mom, her first art exhibition, when her mom kicked her out for changing her major from pre-med to visual fine arts, when her first love broke her heart... He was not only there, but he comforted Clarke, supported her, loved her—though maybe not in the way she truly desired, but he was there. Plus, he was her best friend's older brother, so she was more than a little scared to let her true feelings for him be known—to anyone.

Bellamy was the easel, the brush, and the canvas, but the image they created together never fully satisfied the longing Clarke felt. She knew that she would probably never be satisfied when it came to her relationship with Bellamy. After all of these years how could he see her as anything but his baby sister's sometimes-silly-but-always-too-opinionated friend, a pseudo sister that he'd look out for, but never feel romantic love for? Clarke had almost convinced herself that that kind of love would be enough, but lying so close to him now, his scent and touch intoxicating her senses, made her want more—made her want him more than she had ever wanted anyone before, even Finn. And the thought that it would never happen was devastating, suffocating.

She felt his fingers brush her neck again and her hand tightened on his thigh in response; his fingers were perched delicately over her most ticklish area. She squeezed her eyes shut willing their embrace to last longer, but she knew from his movements that he would be awake soon and the distance would be there again, no matter how closely she was pressed against him. Her fingers stretched and retracted along his thigh, thoughtlessly playing with a crease in the fabric of his jeans as she contemplated how to act when he did wake up.

"You're playing a dangerous game, Princess." Her body froze as his voice, rough from sleep, grumbled through the silence. Her eyes fluttered open and she sheepishly looked up at him. His eyes were hooded and glinting with something that made her stomach flutter in a maddeningly familiar way.

"Good morning." She prayed her blush wasn't noticeable.

"I'd say so." He replied with a small smile, brushing his fingers across her neck again as he carefully stretched below her.

"Uh, speaking of dangerous games…" She said leaning her head back to shield her neck from his fidgeting fingers.

She watched the playful smirk cross his features, but didn't understand why until it was too late. He knew her ticklish areas and his fingers easily danced across her neck and ribs until she was completely curled up writhing and laughing on the couch beneath him. He might have continued with his torture if her erratic squirming hadn't knocked his arm out from under him. It was the pillar holding him safely above her, but now he was quite literally lying on top of her, noses touching, lips mere inches apart, eyes locked. She couldn't have moved away if she wanted to (which she didn't); she was entranced, hopefully delusional that the intensity of his stare meant he might in some small manner feel the same way about her as she felt about him.

"Fuck, you're perfect." This wasn't the first time Bellamy paid Clarke a blush-worthy compliment, but it was the first time he did so close enough that she could feel his breath ghost her skin with his words. The sensation made her heart race. That familiar stirring in her lower abdomen demanded she lean up and close the distance between their lips. His lips were soft and warm but unmoving. His complete stillness terrified her. She had very obviously crossed the line she had been carefully avoiding for so long and this would completely fuck up the close friendship that she and Bellamy had. How could they go back to the way things were after she made a fool of herself and kissed him? His stillness clearly showed that he didn't feel the same about her. She pulled back desperately searching for an excuse that would explain her impulsive action.

She opened her mouth to explain, but Bellamy closed the distance between them again, smothering her in the best way possible. His lips were rough and demanding against her own. The sensation filled her veins with fire and desire; she couldn't get enough of his lips, his hands, his everything. Her arms wrapped around him and attempted to pull him closer. Words ceased to exist in her mind and the need to be closer to him was the only thing that mattered. He practically swallowed her groan as his hands slid under her shirt leaving a trail of fire in their wake. She was slowly, contentedly falling apart.

She pushed the sound of a slow clap out of her mind until Bellamy grudgingly pulled his lips away from her pressing his forehead to hers; they both attempted to catch breath. As the noise finally faded out Clarke realized it wasn't coming from inside her head. Octavia came into view as Clarke slowly turned her head toward the hall; the brunette gave her a familiar, knowing smirk before muttering, "It's about damn time." She then disappeared into the kitchen before adding, "Bell, when you're done feeling up my best friend, can you make us pancakes? I've got the hangover from hell."

Clarke sputtered momentarily at her friend's nonchalance and felt heat rush to her face at being caught making out on the couch while Octavia was in the other room; at the same time she couldn't help but feel relieved. Octavia had often teased Clarke about Bellamy, but Clarke always thought she was just trying to get a rise out of her, like when Clarke would tease Octavia about her friend Jasper and his one-sided crush on the brunette. Though based on Bellamy's reaction to her kiss, Clarke's feelings weren't as one-sided as she thought.

"You may want to rephrase that, O, or you'll never get pancakes." Bellamy called out to his sister while staring at Clarke with a devilish grin wrapping his arms around her to pull her into a seated position. He kissed her softly then and Clarke had to exercise great self-control to match his gentle pressure.

"Gross. I just hope you didn't defile that couch. I sit there too, you know. Make yourself decent and get in here to make me pancakes. You two can be as indecent as you'd like **after** I leave."

"To be continued, Princess." Bellamy whispered kissing Clarke's forehead.

"I eagerly await." Clarke retorted, pulling him in for one more kiss before he, too, disappeared into the kitchen. She sighed and slouched back into the couch. Whether this led to eternal happiness or extreme heartache, Clarke wouldn't take back her kiss for anything. For the first time in a long time she was genuinely and unconditionally happy.


	2. Grieving Alone, Together

Grieving Alone, Together

The sense of weight I felt upon waking was a familiar and suffocating grief. I completed my morning routine as my thoughts flickered briefly to the biggest lie I'd ever been told: "time heals everything." Years have come and gone, but this wound was still mangled in a way that would never fully heal.

The dense morning fog made me feel somehow protected; things always seemed to feel less harsh and imposing in dim lighting. The streets were quiet—at least as quiet as city streets could be. This year the, for lack of a better word, anniversary fell on Saturday and even the earliest risers had yet to emerge. It was better like this, easier.

The latch on the wrought-iron gate took some convincing to open which meant I had arrived first. I followed the manicured path past the Smiths, past the Joneses, and stopped reluctantly where I always stopped. I set the small bouquet of flowers in front of the large stone and scanned the list of names etched into the marble, but I knew exactly where his name was: third column, second row.

Jake Griffin.

Once again, I was pummeled by grief, anger, and loneliness. My hand twitched slightly as it sought solace, but he wasn't here yet. I glanced at the time on my watch— _my dad's_ watch: the one tangible piece I had left of him. 6:08. In the years I had come here he had always arrived first. What if something terrible had happened to him? What if he, too, was now nothing more than another stone slab that threatened to crush the little bit of life I had left right out of me? The possible reasons for his absence descended upon my mind like ice water; it was difficult to breathe.

It had always been a difficult day, but the emotional strain was what weighed on me the most. It had become easier to deal with my dad's death, with life, and with everything if I carefully constructed a barricade around myself the other 364 days of the year. The problem with this method is that when you open the dam everything comes out in a torrent: vulnerability and genuine emotion wreck havoc on the rational and pragmatic parts of the brain. Grief, as it turns out, is a natural paralytic.

My eyes closed, and I felt certain my lungs and heart would soon follow. I had never been good at handling emotions, which is why I people think me cold, distant. It's been five years, but the pain feels brand new, a ceaseless fire determined to leave nothing but ashes in its wake.

Pressure on my hand brought me back and when I opened my eyes his hand was entwined with mine. He was there beside me just as silent and beautiful and broken as he had been for the past five years.

Relief flooded my system—he was alive—and I rationalized away the urge to wrap my arms around him. So, we stood hands entwined, eyes trained straight ahead to the stone slab memorializing 100 victims of the Arc metro line's tragic accident. 100 names I could recite from memory at the drop of a hat.

The city's ambient noise gradually grew and I glanced at the well-worn watch on my wrist. It was nearing time to go.

"I'm Bellamy. Bellamy Blake."

I physically flinched; it startled me when he spoke. This cemetery was always silent; I would have believed that only the crows and wind could speak within the grounds. His voice, Bellamy's voice, was deep and raspy, like one who has awakened from sleep prematurely. Blake… was he there to mourn for Aurora Blake: first column, fifth row? What was their connection?

Bellamy Blake. I let his voice reverberate in my mind before responding, "Clarke Griffin."

The corners of his mouth twitched and I tried to take in everything about him. It felt somehow forbidden to stare directly at a stranger in a cemetery. My eyes flitted across the smooth expanse of freckled skin from the dimple of his chin, to the faint scar above his lip, to the gentle slope of his nose, and became trapped in his penetrating stare. In that moment, I felt as though I had always known him, as though he was a part of my past—a part of me. How was it possible that I knew nothing about him before today?

"I know this place a couple blocks over. It's nothing fancy, but the coffee's good and the seating's comfortable."

My mind was struggling to keep up with the changes. He cleared his throat and looked to where our hands were still entwined. His grip loosened.

"That is if you're free, or even interested."

His hand was slowly sliding from mine and I was suddenly terrified of losing him—of losing this connection, whatever it may be.

"Yes, I'd like that."

Maybe this was the first step we needed to take to move on without letting go. No one else would understand the complexity of my grief—how could they? But when I looked into his eyes I felt that he could, that he always had understood. I held his hand more firmly as he led us away from the names, from the cemetery, and from the pain.


End file.
